


The Blackmailed Detective

by Jay_the_bird



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Fluff, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Internalised Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Unrequited Love, or is it?!, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-28 20:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_the_bird/pseuds/Jay_the_bird
Summary: On a warm evening in October, Sherlock Holmes appears, bleeding and alone, on Dr John Watson’s doorstep. How and why did this occur, and who stabbed him? Despite Holmes’s refusal to say, Watson is determined to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I’m Jay, and this is not my first fic, but it is the first I have put out upon the inter-webs. I’m on tumblr @shipper-of-things so go check me out if you want to. Hope you like the fic, and please let me know if there’s anything I should change, anything you really like, or just generally what you thought!

I find myself once more taking up the pen to record the extraordinary deeds of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps this story shall never be published - I hope that there will be a time when it can be - but for reasons that will become abundantly clear as this strange tale unfolds, I cannot - and will not - release this story to the public in my lifetime. And yet, I feel that the tale of Sherlock Holmes is incomplete without this tale. I write it therefore, so that my own mind might be at peace, knowing that my life’s work, as chronicler of the life of Sherlock Holmes, will not go unfinished.

  
It was a Friday evening when the events here recorded, which were to inevitably change my life, though, I hope, for the better, begun. I had, as was my custom on a Friday, lingered longer on the way back to my home from my practice than was usual, in part due to the chaos my house would inevitably in, as Fridays were wash days, and in part due to my desire to contemplate the week in complete peace and isolation. Though I did, it is true, love my wife, i had never felt the extraordinary attachment to her which allowed me to feel completely at peace in her presence. Perhaps that was due to my military past, or maybe my long years spent as the chronicler of the greatest man I have ever met, Sherlock Holmes. At any rate, I was drawn to solitude, and at the end of the week I would wander through London as I made my way home, occasionally passing by the markets and purchasing a trinket for my wife or for my great friend, whose acquaintance I was still blessed with– though more distantly than perhaps either of us wished. Since my marriage to Mary Morstan- a crime I am sure Holmes looked upon as severely as murder- we had drifted apart, and I regret that I was no longer invited on wild chases through London every other Tuesday. On this particular Friday, a surprisingly warm evening in October that felt like the dying breath of summer before the bitter cold and damp of autumn set in once more, I was bone-tired, utterly exhausted by a hard week that had seen some particularly difficult injuries, illnesses and people pass through my practice. I was more than ready for the brief respite of the weekend, and walked, I must admit, in a stupor. This was why I did not notice anything strange or out of place, even though, looking back, I must have seen the slumped figure by my gate as I opened it and passed through to the front door. In the moment, however, I was so lost in thought that I did not register it in the slightest, and passed by the figure without any unease. Due to my delay on the way home, it was dark when I finally reached my own front door, and I fumbled with my keys on the doorstep. In this moment, the figure from the gate placed its hand on my shoulder, with a grip like a vice, and as I turned around, promptly collapsed.

  
I acted with the swiftness of one who has dealt with such incidents before, catching the man – for there could be no doubt that the figure was otherwise –before he hit the ground, and crouching beside him as I half-cradled him in my arms. I was shocked to find, as I looked down, that this was no assailant nor homeless vagabond, but instead my dear friend Holmes, who looked up at me with a slightly bemused smile upon his face as he clutched his abdomen in an attempt to hold back the blood seeping from whatever wound was there. I shudder to think what might have happened to him if I had entered the house more swiftly. Would he, perhaps, have died on my doorstep, with me none the wiser until the following morning? In all likelihood, I think so. At any rate, he was in no fit state to move further, and it was a miracle he had managed the distance from gate to door.   
I could tell instantly that he was badly injured, but in my shock, made no attempt to leave him and fetch my medical kit, which I knew would be just beyond the threshold of the house, as it always was. I was afraid that if I were to desert him, even for a moment, that moment might have been his last, and that I would have, in some way, caused the death of this great man.

  
I was dumbstruck for a few seconds, staring at him in confusion as I attempted to comprehend how he had come to be in this position. When I finally spoke, I was confused, and even doubtful that this could really be my greatest friend, lying in such a low state.  
“Holmes?” I asked. “Can it really be you?” He seemed to rouse himself at the sound of his name, the clouded look fading from his eyes, leaving them as clear and piercing as ever.   
I have often prided myself on my closeness with Holmes, and that out of all the people in the city, I would have been the one to bear witness to this great man. I had not considered, until this case, that there would be any greater achievement in my life than the fact that Sherlock Holmes called me friend.

It was, therefore, greatly upsetting to me that the first conscious emotion Holmes showed towards me on that evening seemed to be bitterness. His lip twitched into a sneer, though why, I could not discern.  
“Of course, Watson,” said he, though I suspected it was more in response to some internal dialogue than any speech of mine. Swiftly, however, his expression changed to one of desperation, and he reached up to grasp at my coat collar, pulling me down to his face as if to whisper something of deathly importance into my ear. At the last moment, however, he appeared to change his mind, and released me, letting me resume my previous position, looking over him. As I continued to gaze with the deepest concern at his face, half thinking he was under the influence of some drug, or even delirious with pain, he reached up once more, this time with one hand, and placed it upon my cheek.  
“My dear John.” He murmured, looking completely at peace, and sighed, before his eyes rolled backwards and he fell unconscious in my arms.

  
I must admit that I panicked, and a frightening sight I must have been when I finally opened the door, calling for my medical kit and staggering under the weight of Holmes. There were several hours where I was certain that my friend would breathe his last in my arms that night. He refused to be laid upon the bed, or the sofa, or indeed the floor, but instead clung to my with surprising and somewhat frightening strength, and made sounds of such distress when I attempted to dislodge him that I was forced to treat him while he remained cradled in my arms. He had been stabbed. There was a knife wound, just below the bottom of his rib cage, in the centre of his body. It disappeared upwards, and I was astounded that no vital organs had been pierced. If it had been a few inches higher, I was certain he would have died on the spot.  
My wife seemed colder and more distant than was usual-as she often was when Holmes was around. She had, since our marriage, joked about having to compete with Holmes, and it seemed to me that sometimes she believed it. Considering the way Holmes was clinging to me, and the fact that he had called me John, I was beginning to wonder if there was any truth in her joke. At any rate, I was unnerved, and longed for Holmes to come to his senses and explain this whole strange affair. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was late when I managed to dislodge Holmes and get to bed. My wife refused to talk to me, and I slept badly, being worried about my friend. As a result, I was irritable when I woke in the morning. Holmes was already awake when I eventually arrived at the kitchen table. I managed to make him sit down and have breakfast, a rare occurrence, even when I had been living in Baker Street. After we ate, I attempted to make conversation, asking Holmes about recent cases and experiments. He responded as briefly as possible, and seemed to be on edge constantly. The rest of the day passed in much the same way. My wife and Holmes were both tense, Holmes snapping at her twice when I was in the room. I attempted to be a voice of peace, however I suspect that I made little difference. Holmes made barbed comments about Mary, and she responded in kind, though she had not his powers of deduction and relied solely on my accounts of Holmes to find points with which she could insult him. By the end of Sunday, I was quite exhausted with all my attempts at peacemaking, and I doubted that any of us could have lasted another day in each other’s company. I hoped also that if I could spend some time alone with Holmes he might open up with me and reveal the circumstances behind his mysterious wound.

  
Monday dawned in the most spectacular of ways, the entire sky ablaze with hues of gold and purple. I had woken early, and intended to breakfast alone, before heading to my practice with Holmes when he awakened. However, as I descended the stairs, I became aware that my friend was already awake, and admiring the sunrise. On an impulse, I went silently to his side and stood close to him, our arms pressed against each other, and our feet only centimetres apart. As calm as I was, I could feel Holmes next to me, tensed and nervous. He took a deep breath, and then I felt his hand slip into mine, shaking with nerves. So we stood until the sun was risen and my wife came down the stairs. As he heard her footsteps, Holmes dropped my hand and stepped away from me. As he did so, I felt as though a spell had been lifted from me. I turned away from the window, and hurriedly picked up my bag and donned my coat. My wife arrived at the door as I finished lacing up my shoes, and barely had the time to kiss me goodbye before Holmes and I left and began the short walk towards my practice.

  
Neither of us spoke of what had happened. Instead, we talked of my practice, and Holmes’s cases, though he refused to speak of the latest of these. I enquired after Mrs Hudson’s health, and was reassured that she was quite well. Despite our easy conversation, I felt that Holmes was withdrawn, as if he was holding himself back from speaking to me. I will admit that I felt hurt by this. As I have stated before, one of my greatest achievements was that Holmes considered me a friend, and now that relationship seemed to have withered. I could not help but wonder what the cause of this deterioration in our closeness was, and whether I had any blame in this.

  
Holmes was unusually quiet at my practice, and stayed in the front room, helping me to direct any patients to where they could sit and wait. He whispered private deductions in my ear, and in some cases, I found it difficult not to laugh as he told me what my next patient was suffering from, or how, exactly, they had, for example, caught their finger in a mouse trap. He was, as ever, always right, and I could not fail to notice his smug smile with every diagnosis he was correct on. With Holmes nearby to lighten my mood, the day passed quickly and without much frustration on my part. When Holmes came in at the end of the day to tell me that he had closed up, as it was past six o’clock, I was surprised that the day had passed so quickly. However, when we reached the door, he would not let me leave.   
“Holmes?” I asked. “What is this?” I reached for the door handle, and in a quick movement that I barely saw at all, Holmes had me pinned against the door, our bodies pressed so close that I could feel his breath on my face.   
“Watson,” said he, in a low and desperate voice, “you must promise me something.” I remained silent. “Promise me you will not attempt any further to investigate my latest case.”   
“Holmes, you know I cannot promise that!” I cried, and pushed him away from me. He staggered, and I remembered his injury. Guilt rose in me like a wave, and I reached out to him before he cut me off.   
“If you will not promise me, your life and wife will both be in danger. The men I was pursuing are ruthless. They will stop at nothing to achieve their ends, or to silence those they deem a threat.” There was silence for a moment. I opened the door and left, closing and locking it behind me. After I had locked the door, I waited, with my head resting on the door, until my head felt clear before I headed home to my wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments/kudos on the last chapter :) I’m honestly a bit overwhelmed that everyone likes it! Let me know about any errors etc on this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it!  
> -Jay


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Jay here, as always let me know what you think in the comments, or just leave a kudos. Thank you to everyone who’s given feedback so far, I’m really grateful to all of you. Hope you enjoy, and here it is!  
> -Jay

She was waiting at the door for me, much concerned that I had not eaten breakfast that morning. I felt no small amount of guilt at the pain I was causing her, and apologised profusely. She was pleased to see that Holmes was not with me, and would be sleeping at the practice. I felt guilty about that as well. He had wanted to protect us both, and I had in return locked him in my practice without so much as a farewell. Still, I did not voice my concerns until we had sat down for supper.   
“Mary,” said I, hesitantly, “I think it might be best if you leave London for a while. I will be helping Holmes with a case, and the men we are pursuing may attempt to cause you harm. I’m sorry, Mary, but Holmes needs me, and I owe him my life. I cannot deny him aid now.” She looked sad, I noted, and took time to collect herself before speaking.   
“And what if I need you? What about Murray? He has saved your life, and yet you have never left me, all in a rush, because he has called you to his side and you have to go.” She smiled sadly, and looked down at her plate.  
“Murray has friends who can help him. Holmes has no one but me.” I replied gently, and reached across the table to take her hand.   
“But if it were a choice between Holmes and I, you would choose him. Do not deny it, I knew when I married you that I was not who you truly loved. Still, I hoped for happiness, which I have had.” She paused, sighing. “I began to pack my bags the moment he arrived, John. I will leave in the morning.” At this, she rose from the table and departed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  
I did not sleep that night. After a few hours, I left, unable to stand the silence of my wife and her words to me ringing in my head. I hailed a cab for Baker Street, determined that, if I should not be able to sleep in my own bed, I should at least be able to take advantage of Holmes’s absence to investigate his last case, and find out what it was that he was so desperate should remain uninvestigated. It did not surprise me to find Mrs Hudson still awake when I arrived. She had always kept strange hours, always seeming to be awake, and I could not remember a time when she had been asleep when either of us had need of her. She greeted me kindly and we sat down for tea together. After a brief moment’s hesitation, I asked her about Holmes.   
“Mrs Hudson, has Holmes been different lately?” I asked, in between sips.   
“Not particularly,” she replied, and sighed, “I did think he was looking for someone to share the flat for a while, but- well you know he couldn’t replace you.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, looking anywhere but at her.   
“Could I have a look at his papers?” I asked, with a pang of guilt as she nodded, evidently assuming I had Holmes’s permission to do so.   
As I entered my old rooms, I could see instantly that Holmes had been on a case. Every surface was covered in sheets of paper, with newspaper clippings piled high upon the floor. The mess had even spread into the bedrooms, which I studiously avoided in my search for evidence. Despite the chaos, I could see Holmes’s method of organisation at work, and so began to search around the innermost piles, where his most up to date evidence would be.

  
By morning, I had read through three piles, all of which seemed equally confusing to me. Each was on a different person, and though the crimes were similar in execution, I could find no link between them. Looking up, I recalled that my wife would have left the house by this time, and would have caught a train to the coast, to spend time out of danger. Holmes would be wondering where I was. This thought prompted me to hurry, sweeping a pile of important looking paper into my case, before I bid Mrs Hudson farewell and hailed a cab to go to my practice.

  
When I entered my practice, Holmes greeted me with the quietness I had come to expect from him over the weekend. From anyone else, I might have expected shouting and cures to be hurled at me, which i felt that I deserved. Holmes accepted his imprisonment overnight with a silence that was unsettling. His only words to me were to repeat his request of the previous evening, however, he seemed to accept reluctantly, that I was set upon investigating the cause behind his state. As he came to realise that nothing he could say or do would make me change my mind, he became more withdrawn, not wanting, I suspect, to give me any clue through his behaviour or words as to his last case. The day passed without his comments and little deductions as my patients came and went. Despite this, I could not help thinking that even having Holmes in a mood such as this one was better that not having Holmes at all. I was comforted in the knowledge that he could not be getting himself into more danger by staying with me.

  
By the evening, I was more than ready to leave my practice and return home with Holmes. We walked to the door together, after my last patient had left, but at the door Holmes paused, and smiled softly and somewhat sadly at me.   
“Goodnight Watson.” He said quietly, and turned to go back into the practice.   
“Holmes?” I replied, confused at his actions. “Where are you going?” He faced me once again, that same bittersweet expression on his face.   
“You are going home, are you not? Neither you or your wife shall welcome me there. I will stay here, and see you again in the morning.” I was reminded sharply of my wife’s words to me before she left.   
“My wife has left London, at my request. I thought to return to Baker Street with you.” I replied. Holmes’s face appeared to light up with joy.   
“Then I shall fetch my coat, my dear Watson.” He said, beaming. On our way, he regaled me with stories of chases through london, and of the stupidity of the police force. We had at last been reunited, I was returning with him the Baker Street, and he was happy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for this being a bit late. I do sort of have an excuse? It was my birthday last Tuesday, so I was busy and couldn’t get around to writing. As always, I hope you like the chapter, and feel free to leave criticism or other reactions in the comments.  
> -Jay

Alas, this happiness did not last long. I had not foreseen Mrs Hudson telling Holmes about my visit in his absence. If this were not enough, Holmes saw in an instant that I had looked through his case notes, and withdrew into himself once more. Once more, an awkward silence reigned between us, and the sound of irritable violin playing filled the flat. I could not help but feel guilty, and had to remind myself multiple times that my investigation was for Holmes’s own good. Halfway through a rather sharp rendition of Beethoven’s fifth, Holmes broke off with a sudden scrape of his bow across the strings.   
“Why are you doing this, Watson?” He asked, and turned so that he was looking directly at me with his piercing blue eyes. I was lost in his gaze for a moment before replying.  
“I am doing it to protect you. If I do not know who is to blame for your injury, I cannot prevent it from happening again.” He studied my face as I spoke.  
“Protecting me is not your duty. You would be safer staying away from me.” He replied quietly. At that moment I felt that I understood Holmes more than I ever had before. I stood up and went over to him, prising the violin from his long, dexterous fingers and setting it down. We stood closely, and I took his hands gently in my own, looking up directly into his eyes.   
“Holmes,” said I, “There is no cause more important to me than that of seeing you safe and unharmed. If I am in danger by being near you, then so be it. I will sleep sounder knowing that you are not alone and unprotected.” As I finished speaking, my great friend looked as though he had been struck on the head. He blinked slowly several times, before speaking in a voice choked with emotion.   
“You care that much for me?” He asked, staring at me in a mixture of wonder and confusion. Not trusting myself to speak, I merely nodded, gazing up at him. His fingers wrapped themselves more firmly around my hands while we stood together, waiting, though for what, I did not know. I only noticed when Holmes’s body met mine that we had moved closer. I was alight with anticipation, my hands shaking with nerves. A thousand thoughts and feelings danced through my head as I stared into Holmes’s eyes, my breathing uneven and my legs unstable. I stretched up towards him, trying to close the distance between us. In his eyes, I could see all that I was feeling and more.

  
I have often wondered what would have happened in that moment if Mrs Hudson had not come in with our supper. What line would we have crossed, and how would it have changed us? I can only guess. At the time, all I knew was that the moment had passed, and that a longing which I had been concealing for years was to remain unfulfilled. Disappointment and relief warred inside of me, as I considered where I would have been willing to go with Holmes had Mrs Hudson not arrived. I was certain that we would have kissed, but then what? I came to the uneasy conclusion that any line drawn after that would have been drawn by Holmes. I would have been willing to do anything. It was a frightening thought. I had long since known and suppressed the fact that I was not only attracted to women. Holmes made me reckless in my pining for him, and I had found myself becoming less discrete in my actions around him. Now it seemed once again that my feelings were resurfacing, and at the worst of times.

  
Holmes was quiet over our meal, replying only when I asked him questions he could not ignore. We did not speak of what had passed between us, or what might have happened. I asked after the health of Detectives Lestrade and Gregson, and received confirmation that they were both in the best of health and as oblivious as usual. I was relieved by this, as it would have been a bad sign indeed if Holmes could not even bring himself to insult the officers of Scotland Yard.  
After we had finished eating, Holmes once again took up his violin, and his fingers flew as though they had wings, playing so skilfully that I fought to stay awake while he played, so calming was the sound of his violin to me.

  
Eventually, I retired to my room, climbing up the stairs as Holmes continued to play below. When I entered my bedroom, I found it in disarray. Even I, with my limited deductive skills, could tell that my bed had been recently slept in. A silk robe, far too expensive for my tastes, was hung on the door, and someone leaving in a hurry had left his socks behind. I will admit that I was confused. Holmes, I was sure, would never leave his own bedroom for mine, which was smaller and more draughty than his. That was when I remembered that Mrs Hudson had told me Holmes had been looking for someone to share the flat with after I left. Jealousy boiled in my stomach, and I resolved to ask Holmes most forcefully about this other man. In a moment of anger I threw everything that had been left in my room down the stairs. There was no sound from Holmes, which in some way made me feel worse. I paced in my room, angry at both Holmes and myself for what I had found. How could he have searched for someone to replace me? All I had done was to fall in love and get married. In my anger, I did not comprehend the irony of the situation, that Holmes felt the same way about Mary. I did not sleep well that night, but tossed and turned, wondering who this other man had been, and why Holmes had chosen him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! I’m so sorry for the amount of time it’s taken me to write this bloody chapter. Hopefully the contents will make up for it? I’ve given you pining Watson and a *romantic evening*, so as always, I hope you enjoy it, and leave any thoughts in the comments!  
> -Jay

I knew I hadn’t woken up. Perhaps it was the fact that the sunlight was streaming through the window despite the time of year and typical London weather. I prefer to think it was the fact that I was no longer alone in my bed.

  
I was used to dreams such as these, so vivid I could feel the sun on my face, the warmth of the body next to me. Shame flooded through me. I had thought these dreams had left me since my marriage. My dream-self rolled over, nestling into the person next to him. I knew beyond a doubt who it was before he spoke. A wave of guilt hit me like a brick wall. The dream continued as my dream-self spoke quietly.  
“Sherlock, are you awake?” I murmured, nuzzling closer. The dream was warm and soft, more peaceful than I had felt in years. Dream-Holmes mumbled a response, and I could feel a smile on my lips. “Mrs Hudson has left for the weekend.” There was another mumble as Holmes turned to look into my dream-eyes. I couldn’t stop smiling as I looked at him. “We have the flat to ourselves...” I trailed off, my smile turning into more of a smirk. Holmes kissed me, pressing our bodies closer together. The purest feeling of happiness flooded through me.  
“I can think of something we could do.” He replied, and I felt his hand slipping down my back.  
That, naturally, was when I woke up. The feelings from the dream of contentment and happiness drifted away like smoke in a strong wind, leaving my with guilt, burning shame and frustration. Groaning, I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow and telling myself over and over again that this dream was wrong. I was married, after all, and Holmes was a man, and more than that, he had never shown attraction to anyone in his life that knew of. Longing for such a thing with him was unrealistic and, I told myself reluctantly, that wish would never be fulfilled.

  
It was mid morning by the time that I felt safe to come back down the stairs and face Holmes. Considering my dream, I no longer felt I was in a position to berate him about the person who had slept in my bed. We left the flat in a hurry and took a hansom cab to my practice. I had stowed the papers I had taken from Holmes’s investigation in the room where I saw my patients, and all day I carefully extracted information from them between patients. Holmes acted as receptionist again, and took to whispering his deductions in my ear. My breath came haltingly, my heartbeat too fast as he moved his head close to mine at these times. I was on edge all day, distracted. I diagnosed one wan with a common cold and almost sent him away before seeing his broken wrist in its makeshift splint. Still, by the time I closed up the practice, I felt I had a solid idea of the criminals Holmes had been chasing. There was a family of them, a mother, a father who was currently in prison for attempted murder, two adult sons and a daughter whose age I could not find out. There were no names in the files, much to my disappointment, but even so, I felt that the investigation was finally underway.  
Holmes and I stopped at my friend’s house on the way home, and I asked him to take care of my practice for a few days, as I would be looking after Holmes. He agreed instantly, and we went on our way home.

  
Holmes was in a talkative mood. He kept up a steady conversation all the way back to Baker Street, deductions and stories flowing easily from his mouth. I felt guilty in his presence, wondering how long it would be until he deduced my true feelings towards him. After we had made our way back, Holmes announced that he would cook dinner for the two of us, which startled me. He had never shown an interest in preparing food, preferring to eat only when he could no longer avoid it, or when I managed to get him to eat a meal that I had made. Holmes insisted that I go up to my room and prepare for the meal, and so I did, changing out of my coat and uncomfortable work clothes, and into a more casual shirt, waistcoat and trousers. I returned downstairs to an unfamiliar looking room. The armchairs and piles of paper had been cleared away- indeed everything had been moved to make way for a small table with two dining chairs and a candle. Holmes was stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking almost shy as he gazed at me. I was lost for words, and could do nothing but stand with my mouth hanging open for some time. Eventually I spoke, awestruck.  
“You did all of this?”  
“With some help. Mrs Hudson helped me prepare dinner. I...” He paused, frowning. “I hope you like it.” I smiled, certain that I looked like a man in love for the very first time- which I suppose I was.  
“It’s wonderful.” I murmured, drifting into the room. Holmes guided me to my chair, then swept away to fetch our food, which he set down on the table with such a flourish that he almost set his sleeve alight on the candle.  
His cooking was surprisingly good, especially seeing as he had, by his own admission, only started learning about a year ago, after I had moved out to live with my wife. I gathered from what he told me that it had been an attempt to take an interest in something I had often told him was important. I was flattered by this, and made sure to compliment his cooking more than I had been doing already, as I knew Holmes enjoyed being praised and was likely to continue cooking in the future if I complimented him on it now.

 

We finished eating, and Holmes poured me a glass of wine, his elegant fingers holding the bottle delicately. I think it was in that moment, drinking wine and enjoying the evening with Holmes that I knew for the first time how truly, deeply in love I was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it has been a while. I’d say I’ve been busy, but tbh I’ve just been unmotivated. Sorry.   
> I’ll try to write more, promise.  
> -Jay

I woke in the morning on the floor. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Holmes was draped over me, still sleeping. Gently, I dislodged him and stood up, surveying the room. Our glasses were set carefully upon the table, and the candles had been extinguished. I worried briefly that something had happened between us, but I reassured myself that I would have remembered if we had been together in any way. Holmes looked peaceful as he never did when awake. His long limbs were reaching out, fingers grasping for something- I presumed that thing was me. I remember kneeling down next to him, arranging him into a more comfortable position. I paused for a minute, resting my hand on his shoulder and enjoying the feeling of contact, before pulling the blanket off the sofa and laying it over him tenderly. He stirred as I did so, and I recall sitting down upon the floor next to him and running my fingers through his hair, murmuring soothingly to him until he calmed and drifted into a deeper sleep. I rose quietly and left. 

 

When I returned, having washed and dressed myself in clean clothes, Holmes was stood looking out of the window, the blanket from the sofa draped around his shoulders like some medieval cloak. I made more noise than necessary going to sit down, making certain that he didn’t think I’d been spying on him. He left swiftly, trailing the blanket behind him as he retreated into his room. Dramatic as always, he did not reappear for several hours. When he did, it was to ask me to find some pigeon feathers, for whatever purpose (I have yet to understand even half of Holmes’s experiments). I was leaving when he re-emerged, with a bag in my hand which contained the evidence I had stolen from Holmes. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew I had taken it, and felt a rush of guilt as I left Baker Street. 

I found a bench in Hyde Park to sit on while I read. In addition to the evidence, I had taken a notebook and a fountain pen with which to record the information I had and the information I needed.   
Each family member had a section in my notebook, mother, father, sons and daughter. I copied the sketches of the sons that Holmes had made, and the half finished one of the mother, and wrote in each section a list of their suspected crimes- all numerous, all unproven- and where they could be found. It did not take long, for years of writing Holmes’s story had made me a quick note-taker. By noon, I was finished with my notes and the questions I had written in each section. At this time, I liked this case. Although Holmes refused to work on it- or even talk about it- I thought it would make a good story at that time, and I looked forwards to publishing it with anticipation. 

It was with this idea in my mind that I hailed a cab and directed the driver to Scotland Yard. There, my questions would be answered, and the case would continue. I would be able to employ the assistance of the foremost policemen in the world to solve this case- of this I was sure.

Despite Holmes’s constant ridicule of them-or perhaps because of it- I had become friends with many of the inspectors at the Yard. In fact, before I had met my wife and married her, it was often my habit to walk to one of the public houses they frequented on a Friday evening, and spend time in pleasant company, often complaining about the faults of Sherlock Holmes.   
As a result, I felt confident that I would be find an inspector willing to help me continue my investigation- particularly if I emphasised the criminal nature of this family. Therefore I was shocked to find that, upon learning who it was I was researching, everyone I talked to was able to find important work to do that prevented him from helping me. One after the other- Gregson, Lestrade, and all the rest, they found an excuse to look away from the case I presented to them. My shock turned into confusion, and then to anger.  
I was reminded sharply of Holmes’s refusal to talk about his case, and wondered what it could be about this family that kept Holmes and the inspectors quiet. I was determined that whatever spell of fear they were all held under, I would not succumb to it.

It was with this anger still burning inside of me that I returned home to Baker Street. Holmes was very carefully tuning his Violin when I interrupted him.  
“So what is it then?”  
“My dear Watson, I’m afraid I have no idea what your are talking about.” He replied, setting the instrument down carefully.  
“The case, Holmes, the case!” I all but shouted at my friend, frustration building with my anger. “I have been at it all day, and nobody will tell me a thing. Not in all the inspectors at Scotland Yard could I find one man with so much as a second he could spare to assist me. And you- you still have not explained how you came to be stabbed and left by my gate.” There was silence after I had finished talking. Holmes refused to meet my eyes.   
“I wasn’t left by your gate.” He replied slowly. “In fact, I was attacked somewhere near Baker Street. It was my own subconscious self that brought me to you.”   
I wanted to go to him and express how grateful I was that he had come to me for assistance. How honoured I was that he thought of me above all others when he was in need. But Holmes continued to speak. “As for why no one will speak to you about the case- why I will not explain my injury to you-“ here he paused, looking upset- “I do not want you to become entangled in this web. If I had my way, you would have never heard of this case, or any of its features.” 

It was a most unsatisfactory answer, and I told him so, but did not press for more details. It was clear the subject had upset him, so I went and took a cold shower in preparation for changing his bandages.   
The process of changing Holmes’s bandages should not have been difficult. After all, I was well practiced at applying and reapplying dressings. So it shouldn’t have been any different to the hundreds of other bandages I’d changed.   
Unfortunately, any method of changing Holmes’s bandages would require him to take most of his clothes off. 

I wasn’t entirely sure I had the force of will required to deal with Sherlock Holmes in a state of undress.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, let me know if you have any idea how I should be tagging this fic now.   
> This is my first attempt at writing the sex.  
> Critique is much appreciated.  
> -Jay

I returned downstairs unhurriedly, hoping that any delay would help to quell the feelings swirling behind my ribcage. Reminding myself of the technicalities of the task ahead helped. If I could just imagine Holmes to be a patient of mine, I was sure I would be unaffected. 

He was at the window when I entered the room, fingers tracing the lines of his violin, but with no obvious inclination to play. Such an elegant and mysterious sight he made, that all my preparations were gone in an instant, and I merely gazed longingly at him for several long moments.   
“Holmes?” I said softly, breaking us both from the silent spell. “Your bandages need changing, I am sure.” My voice remained low and gentle, no trace of the professionalism I had hoped to portray. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Come over here, Holmes.” He turned around as I spoke, and crossed the room quickly. He smiled at me, I recall, and my stomach felt as if it had turned over itself. Again I cleared my throat, and in a somewhat harsher tone than I meant, told him to take his shirt off. 

It could have been my imagination, but I saw a flush of colour in Holmes’s cheeks as he stripped off the clothes covering his upper body. I will admit to indulging myself at this point. I noted carefully the muscles Holmes hid beneath his garments, the pattern of scars displayed on his skin from years of cases and experiments. My imagination hid those details away to betray me with most mercilessly later. I fetched the medical kit I had stowed, many years ago, beneath my armchair, and began the task of treating my friend. I told myself I was quick and efficient in my treatment. If my fingers lingered a little longer on Holmes’s bare skin than they needed to, if I felt a flush of excitement at every contact- I convinced myself that these were small details. Hardly of consequence at all.   
As I look back, I wonder how I could have ever been so naive, so blind to those around me- to Holmes, in particular. How, I ask myself, could I not see the emotions powering every moment that now seem so obvious to me? 

Both Holmes and I fled to our bedrooms after the bandages were changed. I longed for the embrace of sleep- to be unconscious, to not speak or act for hours on end. I felt every breath I took brought me closer to discovery. I shuddered to think of the reaction of Holmes when he finally noticed, certain he would reject me forever. Such was the mood I was in when I lay down to sleep. 

I dreamt again that night. In the dream, I was warm in bed. Holmes lay beside me. Neither of us wore a stitch of clothing, but I didn’t seem to be concerned by this fact.   
I was kissing him. Over his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. Down along the line of his jaw as he remained silent. I drew back, just for a second, and then met his lips, slightly parted. The kiss was long and tender, yet over too soon. As I drew back once more to gaze at him, I was aware of a great surge of worry.   
“Sherlock.” I murmured against his lips, leaning back in. His name was foreign and familiar. I savoured each syllable, remembering a time not so long ago when I wouldn’t have dared utter even one.   
“John.” He breathed in reply, sending a shiver down my spine. To hear my name on his lips- it was glorious. 

I kissed him again, harder and more insistent. Sherlock replied with eagerness, matching me and mirroring my every move. I rolled over so I was propped up on my hands and knees as he lay beneath me.   
“I could have lost you.” I whispered, and the worry was suddenly explained. I knew, as certain as my name, that Sherlock had taken a risk. Chased a criminal down an alleyway, and had I not been there- the train of thought screeched to an inelegant stop. “You know it was dangerous- you knew he was dangerous.” Sherlock had gone quiet and still again.   
“It was a risk I had to take.” I shook my head firmly. “He would have gotten away- he would have killed again- it would have been my fault.” His speech was broken by gasps as I kissed along one side of his neck.   
“You didn’t have to.” I told him quietly, the words barely audible against his skin, full of sorrow and longing. “He wasn’t worth it.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to shake his head, followed by another gasp as I continued along the other side of his neck.   
“People would have died, John.” I pulled away, looking directly into his eyes.  
“It could have been you. Sherlock, please. He wasn’t worth it. None of them- no criminal, nobody on earth is worth losing you.” He reached up to press a kiss against my lips. I smiled against him, closing my eyes. There was silence between us, before I lowered my head and continued my path down his body. 

Across his collarbone, following his sternum down his chest, recreated in detail from my memory, my lips always in contact with his skin as he became increasingly restless beneath me. I trailed down each hipbone, and paused, pulling ever so slightly away.   
“Nothing is worth this.” I repeated, reverential. 

Sherlock had gone very still again. I looked up the length of his body, seeing his chest rise and fall as he panted, his eyes fixed on mine. Without looking away, I licked a line up the underside of his root. He groaned loudly, throwing his head back. I kissed up the wet line I had created, and paused again at the top. He was panting, almost whimpering in desperation now, and I couldn’t wait long before I plunged downwards, taking him into my mouth in one go. Sherlock moaned loudly and shamelessly as I began to move, tongue pressed against him, going up and down slowly. Each movement was thorough and deliberate, and my eyes never left his face. 

It seemed to last for an age. When I woke up, it was with salt on my tongue and a persistent ache in my groin.


End file.
